


It sucks

by marlowe78



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hell, Other, PTSD, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written for a comment-fic-meme on hoodie_time (over on lj).</p><p>Prompt was: <i>Dean thought he remembered everything about hell, but he'd blocked out his sexual relationship with Alistair. Until now. Please, nothing at all graphic, but I'd really like to see Dean trying to deal with that, and Sam trying to help him.</i></p><p>Set in season 5</p><p>___________________________________________________________________________</p>
    </blockquote>





	It sucks

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a comment-fic-meme on hoodie_time (over on lj).
> 
> Prompt was: _Dean thought he remembered everything about hell, but he'd blocked out his sexual relationship with Alistair. Until now. Please, nothing at all graphic, but I'd really like to see Dean trying to deal with that, and Sam trying to help him._
> 
> Set in season 5
> 
> ___________________________________________________________________________

It sucks.  
Big time. Suddenly, he starts flinching when he’s touched unaware by strangers. He gets all twitchy and antsy and he feels trapped and needs to leave, like right _now!_

It’s happened six times now, always in some bar, random people touching him in passing. Apparently, it doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman, big, small, slender, fat – no difference. Just a brush at his backside, not even meant to be anything, sometimes just a pretty waitress, passing him after delivering beer and liquor to even more strangers in a booth, at a table, fucking _somewhere._ She might even be pretty, something his eyes enjoy and devour. But that does make No. Fucking. Difference. Because now he has to _leaverunfighthiderunrunRUN_ and all he can do is clench his teeth, smile and say “I’m outta here, Sam. Comin’?”

And Sam might come or might not, but mostly, since they are over the worst of the whydidyouwhydidn’tyouithurtIknowI’msorry-stage, after he swallowed his pride and pain (once again, but who would be counting) and got his shit together and they started hunting together again, mostly Sam does come. And than they sit in the motel and he has no idea why and what the hell is playing on TV but it seems he is enraptured because he has been sitting here for two hours now without a word. So. What the hell is wrong with him?

He has no clue, just feels the need to move and fucking do something, anything. Sometimes he starts a fight with Sam, but usually it leaves a sore throat and a bad taste in his mouth, like ash and sulphur and how the fuck does this fit together? He goes looking for hunts and the thrill makes it better, lets him believe it was just a sudden discomfort, will never happen again. They hunt and they fight and they kill, dig and burn, and Dean is happier than he had been for a long time. Sam seems to be okay with it, or not, but when he gets in that mood, he doesn’t really give a rat’s ass.

So now here they are, all the graveyard–dirt gone from the skin and clothes, the awful smell of burning bones and the unbidden memory it evokes washed away. It’s not always pain or exultation that come with it these days, more and more it reminds him of a pyre with a white-sheeted corpse and a heart-clenching grief, now thankfully watered down to a dull ache, a deep-seated melancholy. A _longing_ for something that he can’t really name.

Here he is, clean and happy, ready to order a celebration because the poltergeist was a mean bastard and he was hard to get rid of but both Winchesters are unbroken, uncut and not even bruised. This has to be celebrated and Sam agreed and so here they are and there she is. She had been undressing him since they came in, dark hair and wild eyes and a glitter that promises fun and no strings attached. And Sam nudges his shoulder and strolls over to the dart-board, joins the two guys in a friendly game with no money involved because he is that kind of guy. And he fleetingly wonders why Sam felt the urge to encourage him rather than do the eye-roll but who the hell cares about that.

Her name is Cat and it fits. She is sly and smart and actually quite funny and he knows where this will end because she had been clear on that with her first sentence.  
“Beer, smalltalk, bed. In that order. You can leave before breakfast and if you steal even a toothpick, I’ll hunt you down and kick your ass. Cuddling is optional.” He thinks this can’t get better but it turns out he is right. Because they are at her place, high on hormones and naked already, clothes thrown all over the floor, the couch and the carpet and they managed to land on the bed only by accident and his own sense of how to move what and when. His hands are all over her, under her and elsewhere and she kisses him, hot and hungry, gnaws on his lip and touches his skin, tries to crawl into it, underneath it and all of a sudden her skin hurts, her light touch burns him and her tongue is deep, deep in his throat, deeper than possible and her voice is around him and how is that possible, with her tongue down to his larynx?

The sheets are hard and unyielding, soft and hot, cold and smell like vomit and rotten eggs, they dig into his back and swallow him, drown him. The rough surface bites into his flesh, the naked soles of his feet are sore and feel slippery, like they are bleeding, trying for purchase on the granite – satin? – granite and it burns and it freezes and it _hurts_ and he hears the voice and it is not hers, not even close. Nothing he ever heard and everything he ever heard, and there is a chain, fastened to the dog-collar around his neck. Spikes. A yank, a whisper, a promise and he screams, shoves the weight on top of him down, away; bites and kicks and he doesn’t even remember how he ran down the stairs, how he gathered his clothes. He is in front of the building, cold night-air on his bare feet and legs and he shivers as he recalls that they came with her Subaru, that Sam has the car. He’s shaking when his brother answers the phone, thank God he didn’t leave it in her apartment, shaking so bad he needs both hands to hold the cell to his head.

Sam comes, he always comes, except when he doesn’t, but he is there, bringing with him safety and home and he feels like a fool and a freak and he has no _clue_ why he ran out like that, no idea if she is hurt, if she’s okay and doesn’t really care anyway. He is freaked right out of his mind and so glad that Sam doesn’t say anything, just drives them back and lets him be, lets him sleep. He knows he’ll have some explaining to do, or maybe some evasion, since he has no fucking idea what this was, except he knows _what_ it was, just not why. But that will be tomorrow, now he just sleeps.

 

****************

 

“Dean” Sam says and there are those eyes, pleading with him and he feels wrecked, couldn’t sleep – no, worse even - _did_ sleep but it was not restful in the least. There were dreams and images and sensations which did. Not. Happen, but he dreamed them and they are so weird that either someone roofied him and he was still high, or… or… no. It must have been roofies.

“Dean. You need to talk about this.”

And Dean must have developed precognition because he _knew_ that Sam was going to say that. Knew it to the exact tilt of the big head, the location of the bangs and the pleading in his voice, the gentle coaxing in his eyes. And he knows he has to at least answer, make a joke, laugh or huff or try to be mean and hurtful – there are some accusations that always work with Sam these days , distract him in a big way. But what comes out is so not what he wanted to say.

“I don’t know what happened.”

Duh. That will definitely not divert Sammy. Why did he say that, and why is his voice so low, not even trying for loud and resentful, trying to cover with a lie? “I don’t know, maybe some reaction to her perfume? Maybe someone slipped me some stuff in the drink – hell, I don’t know, Sam.” He looks up, feeling stupid and dumb. It gets worse when he sees that disbelieving stare on his brother’s face, that one with the raised eyebrows. “I swear, I have no idea! One minute everything’s fine, the next I’m off like a freak and stand in the cold, waiting for you to pick me up. I have no fucking clue what happened.”

“You really don’t?” Sam has one eye half-closed, you know the look, like he’s trying to see into your brain and suddenly he feels like a bug under the microscope, all spread open for everyone to see inside, to see the nasty bits. He twitches, except Winchesters don’t twitch. But he starts running his palms over his legs, picking at the threads of his blue-jeans, eyes down. He feels like a dirty little insect, a rodent, a _rat_.

“Sam…”

“Dean, do you remember what came before?” Before?

“Before?”

“Yeah, before you ran out. Go through the evening, step by step. Something must have triggered that panic-attack”

“Dude, I did NOT have a panic attack.”

And Sam looks at him, like he would look at a little cute doggy who peed on the carpet. "Sure, you didn’t. Dean, you were _shaking_ , your pants still open, shirt was the wrong way around and I still don’t know where your socks went. So either she turned into a monster and tried to eat you, and not in a good way, or you had a freaking panic-attack.”

He can’t let that lie, no way. “Sam, did you see her? She was hotter than a stove, those eyes and the hair – man, if my car could be a real woman, _that’s_ how she’d look. I did no way have a panic-attack because of the best-looking woman in forever!”

“Okay!” says Sam and throws his hands in the air “Okay. So no panic. So something else. But whatever it was, it freaked you out, and do you think it would be a good idea to let that lie until you not-panic in front of, say, a ghost? Or something worse? Dean, just tell me what went on after you two left.” And Sam is right and it bothers him that he is, but he _is_ right. So he does what he asked for, goes over the evening, step by freaking step.

And there are a lot of steps.

 

*****************

 

“Dean”, Sam says, exasperated “I don’t care about how many steps you climbed up to her apartment, just summon it up.” He could never resist to needle this boy, still can’t.

“What? And maybe miss some important detail?” The groan is funny and he feels lighter for it, cleaner somehow. But Sam is concerned like he hadn’t been in a while and that is pathetically comforting and so he sums it up with “we kissed all the way up to her door” and goes from there on to the undressing.

“So, everything is fine and she kinda pushed me on the bed and…”

 _Turnspreadopendodon’tbendbitestillhushfightSCREAMforme_

“Dean?”

“I don’t…”

 _LittleonesweetoneprettyoneMINE_

“I…" his eyes go vacant and Sam is not concerned anymore, he is freaked. Dean sits there, hands twitching, eyes somewhere far away and Sam knows how fast the heart will be hammering if he dares to check.

“Dean!” he snaps his fingers in front of his face and when he touches the shoulder his brother jerks away and gasps like someone burned him and Sam goes cold.

Deep, bone-chilling cold.

“Dean… Shhh, come on.” He is pleading but Dean has scrambled away from him, far up the bed like a frightened child and Sam remembers the sudden jerks and shrugs whenever someone comes too close, someone other than Sam. Remembers how he seemed to react to Cas appearing somewhere unexpected – somewhere close by – with a start and barely remained from decking the angel. Not that that wouldn’t be deserved, on a different level. But although Dean had always been alert to strangers, doesn’t like anyone in his personal bubble, the last… weeks? month?, he needed even more space, more room to relax.

Sam tries to remember the last time his brother stayed in a bar till closing and he can’t. He recalls the times he stopped hustling earlier than usual, only a few bucks in his pockets, the times he smiled at a waitress, bartender or otherwise pretty girl but left the diner, bar, room before he had a number or even exchanged a flirt. He remembers “I’m outta here, I need to sleep, I feel like shit, Not hungry” more often now and he can’t tell the last time his brother actually picked up a girl. Sure, he flirted and bantered and exchanged numbers and smiles, but before this one, there was nothing more.

And he would have noticed, could have said something except it was convenient and didn’t really bother Sam. Why should it? But now… now things are different.

Dean is back with him, blinking at him and he has no idea what to say, how to ask what he fears is true, what to do if his fear is confirmed. And he isn’t even sure why he would be surprised, why he never even thought about _that_. Why didn’t he?

Sam has that look again, the pinched expression that screams 'I’m guilty' out to the world and Dean can’t say why he would think that. Can’t possibly imagine how this could be Sam’s fault, how Sam could believe it is. Because it was so not Sam, so definitely not. He remembers now and he wishes he didn’t. Wishes for _this_ to vanish forever, be wiped out. Wishes that even more than he wishes for the pain to be forgotten, for sleep to be restful again. Because this is… is… will …

“Dean…” Oh damn that kid, how can he look so sad and lonely, how can he look so much in need for a hug even though _that_ didn’t happen to him, never happened to him. How come he wants to comfort him even though he knows deep down that he will need the comfort now, the reassurance. Doesn’t want it, really, but there you go: you don’t always want what you need.

“Dean, tell me.”

No. No! He won’t. He won’t tell. Sam knows, Dean knows he knows, or at least suspects. It’s enough, must be enough, more would be cruel, he doesn’t want to tell. Can’t tell. Never.

“Dean, I… what… I’m sorry.” Great. He’s sorry? What is he sorry for?

“What are you sorry for? Wasn’t you, not your fault. My fault.” There. That silences him.

“Your fault? What do you mean your _fault?_ " Or not "Dean, what.. what they did, it… you mean because of the deal? Your fault because you made the deal? Stupid, you could say my fault for letting Jake stab me. Dad’s fault for showing you it works. Evan Hudson’s fault for leading you to a crossroad the first time. Mom’s fault for making a deal with Azazel. Azazel’s fault. Luzifer's fault. Not yours, though. Never yours.”

Great. Now he _has_ to explain. Doesn't want to, doesn't want Sam to understand. But...what Sam thinks is wrong, and so...

“No, not the deal. I… my choice, ok? Not your fault, not Mom’s, not Dad’s. My choice. I’ll deal with it. It’s okay. I’m… I'll be fine. No worries.” And he remembers, doesn’t want to, doesn’t need to, can’t! He feels it, knows it deep, deep down in his guts that it wasn’t his _choice_ , that he never really had one. But to say it, to acknowledge it… No. It would make it real, would make it… no. It ends here! There will be no more wallowing in horror and pain and misery, no more remembering. No more…

“Dean…” Ah damn. Of course Sam Mr Youneedtotalkaboutit wouldn’t understand, can’t leave it alone. Would be too easy, wouldn’t it? “Dean, they..”

“DON’T!” And Sam actually flinches from the force of this word, from the fire behind it. “Don’t say it. It was my choice, and there was no ‘they’ anyway,” The last part is a mumble, he hopes it won’t reach Sam’s oversized ears ‘cause he never intended to say that. But no such luck, never such luck when he wants his annoying little brother to _not_ hear something. But hell be full of roses if Mr Sensitive ever listens when he wants him to. Duh.

“What do you mean? There was no ‘they’?”

And he tries to dodge, tries to hide, actually tries to dig himself into the carpet with his still un-socked toes. Watches his toenails dug up lint and dust and sand and even grosser things from the carpet and he suddenly wonders what colour it had originally and when the maid emptied the vacuum-cleaner the last time. Three years ago would be his guess and he wants so badly to ask Sam, to make him laugh and shake his head, to make him say something insulting which tells Dean the exact opposite. Wishes it with such might that something clenches deep in his chest, suppresses the air-supply, presses unwanted tears into his eyes which tickle his sinuses.

He hates that, always hated that feeling right before everything breaks, everything held tight rushes out in an unstoppable burst of snot, tears and hiccups. He hates it so much in fact that he still remembers the last time that happened – here, alive, on this plane of existence at least. Because that time he doesn’t talk about, that day in Cold Oak…

Nah, that day doesn’t count, he wasn’t actually alive anymore anyway. No, he remembers the date and the fear that his dad would hear him, sobbing uncontrollably into his pillow. The fear that he wouldn’t be able to hold back the scream that sat in his throat and tightened his lungs, or that he _would_ be able to hold it back but die because of it, and wouldn’t that have been the most embarrassing death in the whole wide world? He even recalls the smell of the bed-sheets and the colour of the walls – butt-ugly yellow with scary, smiling flowers. Only thing he can’t remember is the reason for his misery, is pretty sure it involved his birthday, since it was January 24th, 1996. He smiles at the memory of the next day, when Sam showed him the cake he’d made in home-economics. Man, was that the worst cake ever, but even though it was burnt and there where egg-shells in it he ate it all up.

And of course his smile would not go unnoticed with Sam now, can’t the geek leave him alone? Or not alone, but… alone?

“Dean, don’t make this your fault. It’s not. I would… you are not the kind of person who would deny … who would… Damn, maybe you are exactly the kind of person who would make it his fault. But it wasn’t. If… they… you had no choice, they…” he chokes on the words he wants to say, can’t say it because it would make it _real_ , make it true. Sam is intelligent enough to know it to be true anyway, but... “they forced…” he coughs, swallows, wants to wrap his brother in his arms, his fighter of a brother who looks so broken and sheepish right now, fragile, an adjective he would never have associated with Dean. “If they…”

“’They’ didn’t Sam.” He can’t see his not-anymore-kid-brother choke on the words, on emotions Sam feels but which aren’t his own, on pain that is not his and is even more painful for that. Can’t bear to hear him swallow and cough his way around this one word… this _hateful_ word that tells a tale of sadness, pain, desperation, terror and violation worse than mere physical torture. So he helps him, can never not help Sam, not really, not when he is close by. “’They’ were never allowed. Not… not“ _afterafterafterafter_ “not while…" he takes a breath and jumps in, hopes he won't drown, somehow sure Sam will not let him drown. "For thirty years, no one ever even tried.”

Oh God, and he had believed… when he actually had time to wonder, during those painful secondsminuteshours his soul was spared further abuse so it could knit itself together, when there was no knife in his guts and no wrench on his bones he believed demons just never bothered with _that_. Oh boy, had he been wrong.

And why the heck is Sam so damn smart, why did he give Geekboy this bone to pounce on, ‘cause sure as water is wet Smartass knows what was said without being said.

“Oh goodie, so it was only ten years?” The sarcasm drips from every syllable, only underlaid with concern and sympathy, hidden deep so only Winchesters can hear them. “What, you got off the rack and were fair game?”

Damn Sam and his mega-brain and damn his own body for betraying him, for flinching like a … a… like he just did. ‘Cause this is so close to the truth, it might have _been_ the truth. It’s not. Not exactly, but… He could leave it at that, end this conversation that feels so much like torture except for the look of horror on his brother’s face, for the knowledge that Sam will imagine things even worse than the truth. Because yes, there are things worse. So he can’t, wishes he could but he’s not strong enough.

“I got off the rack and ended in Alistair's bed.”

 

*****************

 

It’s out, it wasn’t so bad. Didn’t hurt at all, did it? No, it didn’t. He won’t let it hurt, won’t let it define him. Won’t. Can’t. Will bury the images that come up like life-vests after a shipwreck, floating on the surface of his mind, bobbing up and down with the swell. Images of sulphur-yellow velvet, sensations of hot and rough and silky and soft, boiling hot and freezing cold. Of pain and humiliation when he had been certain that there was no indignity he didn’t know intimately already. Memories of chains on a metal-collar, of knees on hot, rough, burning ground in front of this thing that he called ‘Master’, first with hate and fear, later in subservience. And fear, fear, fear. Always fear. Pain he knew, pain given and received was everything then. Pain defined him. This though… this had hurt different and deeper.

“How?”

Thank God for Sam, for reminding him where he was, for pulling him up again. See, he wouldn't let him drown.

And damn Sammy for asking for details, can’t the Sasquatch be satisfied with the ‘what’ for once?

“How did you end up in Alistair’s bed? And I didn’t think demons _have_ beds.” He can’t help but smile.

“They have beds. Not… not like these here” and he slaps a hand on the old mattress of the fine establishment they managed to find in a city full of good motels “but… it’s… I don’t really know if every demon has a ‘room’ like good ol’Al had. Can’t say I want to find out” You could have asked Ruby, he doesn’t say, can never hear that name without wanting to puke, to strangle something. Only good thing that bitch had done was give them the knife. Which was _very_ good in his book… But Sam won’t let him slip away into a happy world, into happy memories of gutting that whore.

“So? How?”

Asshole.

“You want details? All the sordid things we did?” He did, did to him. Did with him, on him… in him. At him. Over him. He shudders and is pathetically grateful for the Geek to roll his eyes and slap him on the head.

“No! I mean… you said it was your choice?”

And Dean sighs because there is nothing else to do, really. Just breath in and breath out again.

“Yeah. Uhm…” he scratches his head, wonders idly if this is because he’s nervous or because he needs a shower or because of lice. Hopes like crazy it’s the shower or nervousness. “uhm… So, uh… he asked me… Okay, it wasn’t really a choice, okay? There, I said it. Satisfied?“ he shouts, pushes up from the bed, paces and wishes he’d done this before, it soothes his brain, this mindless wandering. Makes him feel alive, less trapped.

Less bound… _collarneckchainwallComeherekittykittyprettykitty_

He chokes, swallows, rushes to the bathroom and throws up more than he ever ate. Feels Sam behind him, hears him utter soothing nonsense but doesn’t _hear_ what he says.

 _DarlingbabymakemehappyneverlikeyoualwayswaitingalonesoalonecomeHERE_

Sam is drowned out by the sounds of Hell, of clinking chains and endless screams. Of gurgles and pleading and the smell of brimstone and blood, of fire, smoke and the sickening odor of boiling meat and frying fat. Of Hell, plain and simple, only not simple at all. He doesn’t blame Meg for hating him, stopped in fact the first minute of his eternity. Can’t really blame any demon for crawling out, wouldn’t mind at all if they weren’t determined to bring their pain onto others. Like he had done… He remembers the first ‘night’ after picking up the knife, the firm ‘No’. Remembers the look of mock disappointment and false pity on his master’s distorted features, right before he chained him on his collar to the wall outside his room, free for the taking.

Oh God, did they take!

Not more than this one night was necessary for him to agree, to be not only his master’s pupil but also his pet. Vomits again when he remembers what followed, always with the choice before.

 _Youwantto?Saynoifyoudon’tComeKneeluphereLiedown!Standup!AgainstthewallOverhere!Overthere!Onyourknees BarkscreamcrieBEG me!_

His gut clenches and constricts, tries to jump out of his mouth when he hears himself say ‘yes’ over and over and over again. When he sees himself meek and obedient and broken beyond words. Only something - not quite some _one_ \- when he has the knife in his hands, a soul on his rack. Disgusting, vile, evil, embarrassing, unworthy of his name. Unworthy of his parents, of his brother, of the dog-shit underneath his shoe. And this can’t be, can never be, isn’t allowed to be. Should never have come out, should have stayed buried where he left it, in this fucking pine-box in Indiana. Why isn’t it there, how came it back? What can he do now?

 _You don’t think you deserve to be saved_ No! Nonononononono, he doesn’t. Didn’t. Shouldn’t have been.

“Dean” he hears through the mist of misery in his heart. “Dean, shhhh, I’ve gotcha. Shhshhshhhh, it’s okay, it’s not true. Please stop, please. Please, don’t say that. You do, you of all people did deserve it. Don’t say, don’t believe you don’t. Dean, please…”

Oh God in heaven, did he say that out loud? And is Sam really rocking him on the bathroom-floor? Can you get more pathetic? Oh, yes you can, snot and tears and saliva on Geekboy’s shirt would be the icing of the pathetic-pie. But he is weaker than a fresh-born kitten, can’t even push away. Grabs his brother’s shirt instead and tells himself it is to shove him from him, not pull him closer, tells himself it has nothing to do with hearing the heartbeat of someone, someone alive, someone he trusts and loves. And he is pretty certain Sam doesn’t grab him tighter, doesn’t caress his hair and whisper something unintelligible but oddly comforting, yes, pretty certain.

 

********************

 

He can’t say how long they didn’t sit there, can only estimate the time based on the stiffness of his legs and the pain in his knees. He feels numb, number than ever. Empty of everything, not even embarrassed anymore. He lets himself be guided to the bed, lets Sam sit him down and lift his legs on the mattress, lets himself fall sideways on the still wrinkled sheets and turns away, face buried in the pillows, knees pulled up as high as they go. Doesn’t really hear Sam rummaging around the room, has no interest in why he would do that. He lies still and wishes for the millionth time he never left the Djinn’s lair, wishes himself into that fantasy-world like he'd done so often that last year, when Sam was a stranger in the skin of his brother.

He smiles at his Mom, grins at his girlfriend. Annoys Jessica like he would a sister and coaxes lawyer-Sam to smile back. Visits his Dad at his grave and tells him a story and for a few hours – minutes? – whatever, he forgets about angels and demons and stupid fucking Lucifer. Forgets his life and loses himself in what can probably never be. Understands Sam and his longing for this, understands why he left. Why he’ll leave again. His face is dry but the skin feels stretched, too small for what's inside. And it probably is but when he swallows, he knows that there is nothing he can do about it. Nothing Sam can do and maybe something Cas could do but he isn’t sure he wants him to anymore. Once, the angel told him that everything that was down there is up here too, nothing was left behind. Apparently some things were a little slower to come back than others and maybe they were because they aren’t important really? Not in the grand scale.

He scoffs, because in the grand scale of his fucked up life, nothing is considered important anyway.

“You ok?” comes the timid question from the table and Dean is surprised because he was pretty sure Sam had left a while ago, didn’t he say something about coffee? “You need anything? Water?” He smiles at that, because why would water be important when you look at his life? But now that Sam asked he feels the coarseness of his throat and he smacks his lips and nods.

His brother nearly topples over the chair in his haste to bring him a glass of luke-warm tapwater, too much chlorine in it but better than anything right now. He uncurls, sits and drinks, looks up to see these huge eyes and deep concern written into the corners of Sam’s mouth. The expression is so filled with misery and worry that he can’t really do anything but laugh. So he does, which makes Sam even more anxious and he starts fussing, trying to touch him but not certain that it would be right. Which would be funny and annoying, his hand snakes forward, back, forward, back, forward… without ever reaching his head, shoulder, arm. But it is so sweet and reminds him of little-Sammy, when he was worried about his big brother being hurt. And so he just smiles and locks their gazes, because for once what he’s going to say is not a lie, not a way to brush him off.

“It’s ok, Sam. I’m… better.”

Because ‘fine’ he is not and he knows that Sam can see that. But he _is_ better. His brother sits down, tries to measure the extend of the lie but apparently it was close enough to the truth, so he relaxes slightly. He takes a breath and Dean prepares for the next question, the next ‘Youneedtotalkaboutit’. But it never comes.

“If you want to talk, I’ll listen. In case I forget I said that, here.” And Sam hands him a piece of paper, carefully written by hand. Dean frowns and reads, smiles. It basically says that on this date, Sam Winchester promises his brother to listen without interruption, judgment, anger or silly face if and when said brother decides to confide in him about his ‘relationship’ with Alistair, demon and torture-master of Hell, deceased. He also promises to not go out and kill someone afterwards, even if he feels like it. It’s signed with “Samuel ‘Sammy’ Winchester” and is such a dorky thing to have, he feels a fond chuckle rise in his heart.

“You just hold it up, wave it in my face or leave it on a table, bed, whatever” says Sam, embarrassed but certain.

And the older brother smiles, complete with eye-crinkle, because this is so stupid and so Sam, so embarrassingly sweet and funny.

“We need contracts now to start a conversation?” he asks, but with nothing but soft mockery behind the words. Gentle is the way to go now, because he knows how he would feel if Sam told him something like that. Knows it would kill something in him, even if he’d suspected before.

He doesn’t want to kill anything of Sam.

“No, we don’t. But maybe I’ll need a reminder now and then, considering my recent score in the sharing and caring business.” And he is so earnest when he says that, so full of concern that Dean can’t bring himself to just let it go. Gives a little.

“It’s not so much that it happened. More the… the fact that … It was never about anything but control. Pure, absolute control. And I’m pretty sure that he knew what it would do to me, that he knew just when to go that final step over mere physical torture. Not … do it while I’m helpless on the rack, but wait until I finally submit. And submit I did. Absolutely and completely. With body and soul, or better: with spirit and soul. I gave up not only the resistance to inflict pain, but _everything_ I was. Utter and complete submission.”

And he can’t help but marvel over the deviousness of Alistair’s little trick. Remembering how he felt after every day in front of the rack, he adds to Sam’s benefit: “When there was a break in my daily job” and his voice is bitter, can’t be anything else when he talks about his deepest shame, deeper even than begging the demon to have his ways with him _pleasepleasepleasemasterIbegyouplease_  
“...when Alistair gave the knife to some other demon, when he… asked me if I wanted some _pleasure,_ ” he spits the word like a cherry pit “I always agreed.”

Couldn’t really do anything else. He’d felt so dirty and evil, small and ugly that he considered what came afterwards, the _"fun"_ that would follow was his just reward. “And each time we were…done, when he gave me the knife again” and Alistair had handed it over like a caress, nearly reverently like a lover's caress “I would go over to the rack and …work… with more gusto, more fire. More _hatred_ ” He recalls the sensation of being soiled worse than ever before, no matter what happened the last time with his master, it always felt worse than anything, ever. And he’d tried to clean himself with blood, wash away his shame with the screams he cut from his victims, purify himself from this disgusting rancidness that was his soul. And that evening the cycle would begin anew and he knows that this would’ve never ended anywhere good. That he’d begun to yearn for the opportunity to dismember something, that he’d felt happy while he had the knife, free. In control.

Powerful.

Always felt disgusting in the evening, when he would yearn for Alistair’s special treatment, for the pain without pleasure that he felt he deserved, that would purify him but never did. So he would start the following day with an effort to wash his humiliation away, to purge his pain and disgust with the blood of others, and he'd feel vile and in need of punishment around midday... And round and round the world turned, round until Castiel grabbed him and even if he didn’t deserve it, he is more grateful than he’d ever tell. Because he is pretty sure that he wouldn't have felt need for punishment for much longer, is certain that the disgust would have been gone pretty soon and what would have been left was that vile blackness that cannot feel regret and pity, that would _crave_ the knife as much as the attention of his Master.

If Cas had been delayed, there would have been nothing left to find.

It's silent.

He looks up then, at his silent brother, not sure if he needs to wave the contract. But Sam just sits, his expression dark.

“Sam?” he coaxes, because he needs to be sure, needs to be certain the disgust in his eyes and the corners of his mouth is not directed at him.

“I can’t… I… I wish…” his not-so-little brother looks up now and there is no fury, only anguish. “I wish I could go and kill him all over again. Resurrect the _bastard_ and kill him, slow and painfully.” Dean barks out a laugh, can’t help himself because yeah, he’d like to see that.

“Yeah, I’d like to see you do it. Maybe you could make sure I’m conscious this time round?” Wonder, oh wonder, Sam grins back. A sheepish grin, but a grin nonetheless.

Then his face falls.

“Dean…”

“Don’t Sam. I know you’re sorry. I know. Okay? Stop saying that. Just…” _show me_ “…you know.”

“Yeah. Okay. I promise.”

Stupid emotions. “I’m starving. Think there’ll be pancakes around? And where are my socks anyway?”

 

That evening, after doing nothing much but wandering through the pretty, boring town, eating ice-cream and bickering over the price of the psychology-books Sam absolutely needed – Dean pretends not to notice the title with the horrific ‘r’-word – and pretending Dean didn’t flinch away from the woman who ‘accidentally’ pinched his ass, they decide to leave in the morning. And while Sam buries himself in the book that Dean won’t even touch, the older brother lies on the bed and watches a movie without ever noticing Angelina Jolie.

Suddenly, his giant brother is next to him and hands him a steaming cup. He frowns because he didn’t even notice Sam coming back, not to mention leaving in the first place. But there he is and gives him a mug full of hot liquid. Then he reaches behind him, takes his own mug, grins and produces a bag full of marshmallows.

“Hot cocoa? Sam, I’m not five!”

“Neither am I. So?”

“Does it say to make cocoa in that book of yours?” he can’t help but chuff out.

“No” is the exasperated comeback “No, but I remember feeling better whenever you made this for me. So, shut up and drink. And what are we watching anyway?” and Sam wriggles his big fat behind next to his brother’s, puts his legs up on the mattress and settles in between Dean and the door, prepared for a long night of stupid movies, M&M’s and hot cocoa. Maybe even the fifth installment of the Great Marshmallow War of 1995. He bought ammunition, just in case.

Because right now, this is where he belongs. Exactly here, shoulder to shoulder to his brother, a wall against the night and everyone outside their fucked-up little lives. He looks over to Dean, relaxes only when he sees the smile across his brother's lips and feels the nudge of his elbow that tells him ‘Enough’. He smiles himself and exhales, wonders fleetingly what might go on in the crazy head of his stupid brother but leaves the mystery for tomorrow.

 _You don’t think you deserve to be saved_

No. No, he probably doesn’t. But… He didn’t deserve _that_ either, nor does he deserve to be a wrapper for some winged asshole, he’s pretty sure about that. If this is supposed to be their fate, no brother deserves it. No Winchester ever deserved what came to them and if John can crawl out of Hell, Mary can keep her spirit benevolent but powerful enough to save her kids, if Sam can be Sam again, then Dean Winchester can get over this crap and save his brother and himself, maybe even mankind. He will not fail again. Maybe he’ll accept a little help along the way, though. Definitely will when they come with marshmallows.

 

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You know, there might be a benefit of… all that.”

“Huh? Are you nuts?” Dean chuckles from the other bed, buried under the blanket and glad that it’s dark in the room.

“No, I’m not nuts.” He hears the rustle of bed-sheets and knows Sam is up on his elbow, face turned towards him. Feels his gaze but doesn’t turn.

“So how can there possibly be something good in … all that?” And he smiles because it’s pretty stupid and it doesn’t make a difference, but maybe… well, maybe it does.

“Dean?”

“Hmm… you know, Alistair was pretty chatty.” Silence, then a disbelieving huff.

“You’re not talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

“Yupp. Old Al was a pillowtalker” and now he turns over, lies on his side and sees his brothers face in the dark “I’m a regular Hare Krishna.” Sam groans.

“Mata Hari, Dean.”

“Yeah” he smiles “Whatever.”

~end 


End file.
